But you're older...

I watch you trudge away to school each morning, my oldest, back bowed under the weight of your heavy school bag, stuffed with math and social studies textbooks and vocabulary flashcards, your flute case slapping away at your thigh with each step, and I sigh. I sigh because I watch your younger sister trip-trapping along behind you, lost in some daydream, her backpack feather-light, with nothing but a single composition notebook and folder containing one color-by-number addition sheet, and knowing you will be coaxing her along the entire journey, your eye on the time, ensuring neither one of you will be late. Your back is bowed, not only by the tools and accessories required to be a fourth grader, but with the weight of being my oldest child.

I have already expressed how you are the child who made me a mother, who turned me from a girl-woman, into the head of a family, and written about the inequity in the older sibling-younger sibling relationship, but I have never written these words before. We have something special, kid.

Nobody wants to say it. Not parents, not children, but we all know it's true. Every mother has a special relationship with their oldest child. Before I am labeled completely heartless, let me exclaim my love for my other two kids. I love all of you equally, but in different ways. #2 is my thinker, my challenge, she makes me see the world in a new way. Little Man is my comic relief. A sitcom to the drama that is raising two girls. You, my oldest are my sidekick, my right-hand man, the one whose eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror when the other two are driving me crazy. Even when you were small, you knew how to help me. When your sister fell and cut her lip open on the coffee table (that your overly confident parents refused to bumper), as I held her bleeding and screaming in the bathroom, assessing the damage, on the phone with the doctor, you ran your four year-old self to #2's bed, and found her baby doll to calm her down. Two summers ago, when we took our first Daddy-free trip to the beach, when Little Man took a huge diarrhea dump in his sandy diaper, and your sister refused to use the outdoor shower, and I stood there, trying to hose off a crying, shit-covered baby, with a screeching four year-old on my leg, you asked me, with a hint of pity, "Is it hard to be a Mom some days?", and I knew you saw me.

Maybe this relationship is born of necessity. Spending so many hours with humans under the age of reason, we mothers grasp at the highest form of interaction available. We might not be discussing politics, but your oldest can at least carry on a conversation about the attributes of each Backyardigan. And, true, once we mothers are outnumbered by offspring, you eldests are forced into a level of dependability that might not be all that fair. But I consider it a trade off. You got me for two un-interrupted years. I never jostled you around and came dangerously close to bashing your head in, nursing you while making peanut butter sandwiches. So asking you to put on your brother's shoes doesn't make me feel all that guilty - most of the time.

Today, as the little two are home sick, and you got yourself up and dressed, brushed your own teeth and hair, and departed for school alone, I felt it. As an oldest myself, I know how little comfort "but you're older" is when you feel you are the only one being asked to clean the bathroom, while the other two only have to empty the wastebaskets. But while you are toiling away, remember who gets to sleep in the top bunk and who's going to get their drivers' license first. Sure, you pave the way with all the hard stuff, but you also reap the rewards.

I hope among those rewards, is the knowledge of how much I appreciate you and the smart, strong, independent girl you have become. On that cold walk this morning, I hope you can remember that it's you, up later than the others, who, several nights a week, sneaks into bed with me to read. When we snuggle in and you tell me, "I like when it's just you and me", know I feel the same way. Eventually, you fall asleep with your wiry body wrapped around me, and I hope you get to feel little for the last few minutes of your day. Even though you are my biggest, you are still my first baby.